Why I Write About Sexual Assault, Even When It Is Uncomfortable
Content note: this essay discusses sexual assault, fear, mistrust and recovery. It does not include graphic details.
I write about my sexual assault experience even when it is uncomfortable because silence once seemed safer than risking being questioned, disbelieved or corrected. Publishing my account does not mean I am willing to relive every moment for strangers. It means I have taken back a voice that fear tried to quiet. When I name what happened, I also reject the pressure to perform a perfectly healed life. My words are mine, and my recovery does not belong to an audience.
The discomfort is part of the record
The discomfort is not proof that I have made a mistake. It is evidence that some people still expect survivors to be quiet, agreeable and grateful. Even in spaces that call themselves supportive, a woman can be believed only after choosing the right words. The need to explain how she was dressed, why she went somewhere or what she said can become another way of placing responsibility on her.
Writing lets me resist that misplaced blame. I can say that I was assaulted without supplying a perfect courtroom timeline or turning the experience into entertainment for someone else’s curiosity. Naming the harm clearly is not sensationalism. It is a refusal to let the person who caused violence decide how the event will be remembered.
My bisexual identity also shapes how I speak about the assault. Shame can try to make it a verdict on my sexuality, as though being desired made me responsible for another person’s behaviour. Writing helps me return the violation to where it belongs: an abuse of power and consent, not a failure belonging to my body or identity. Healing remains nonlinear, and a difficult day does not erase the truth of my progress.
My story is not public property
Social media encourages people to treat personal disclosures as though they carry no boundaries. Once shared, a story can be screenshotted, summarised and sent to people who were never invited into the original conversation. Visibility may become a performance demanded by followers rather than a decision made by me. My reflection on performing happiness for others began with noticing how exhausting it can be to appear resilient when I am still carrying fear.
Melbourne’s café culture can make that pressure feel ordinary. Personal updates are exchanged across small tables, online feeds and community circles, where the audience often moves at the same speed as the story. In a city such as Sydney, where private accounts can travel through busy social networks in seconds, disclosure can also become searchable evidence. A moment of honesty might be preserved long after I have closed the conversation.
So I write on my own terms. I decide what the account is for, who is likely to receive it and whether I want to discuss it again. A feminist space should not require survivors to educate, inspire or thank their audience simply for being believed. Sharing can be meaningful without becoming permanent access to me.
Choice changes the shape of disclosure
Choice gives disclosure boundaries that pressure often removes. I keep two different forms of pressure separate:
| Disclosure under pressure |
Disclosure by choice |
| Shaped by comments, messages or imagined expectations |
Shaped by boundaries I can state and revise |
| Offered to reassure or satisfy other people |
Offered for a reason I understand |
| Expanded to meet someone else’s curiosity |
Limited to what supports my own account |
| Expected to prove that I am “fine” |
Allowed to contain fear, anger and uncertainty |
| Followed by an expectation of permanent availability |
Followed by room to step away |
These columns are not a moral scoreboard. Speaking publicly can be empowering, exhausting or both at once. Silence can feel safer for some periods and can also become another way shame controls the story. What matters is whether the decision belongs to the person whose experience is being discussed.
I also separate courage from compulsory openness. Writing publicly does not require me to disclose every physical detail, identify a location or make the assault the centre of my entire life. A useful account can focus on the impact, the loss of control and the work of rebuilding trust. The story is mine; it does not need to become evidence for every skeptical reader.
Australian settings make caution practical
Australian consent education often describes consent as free, informed, specific, enthusiastic and revocable, although legal definitions vary between states and territories. That standard matters in survivor writing because many people still search for a hidden “yes.” They look for ambiguous behaviour, mixed feelings or a failure to escape instead of examining the choice made by the person committing the assault. Clear writing rejects the idea that consent is something a survivor should have performed perfectly.
Regional Queensland adds another layer of practical caution. Distance, limited local services and concern about being recognised can shape whether someone feels able to disclose safely. Services such as 1800RESPECT provide Australian survivors with confidential telephone and online support, but access to support does not automatically make publication safe. Removing identifying details, checking who can see a post and considering what happens after screenshots can reduce avoidable risks.
Those precautions are not signs of weakness. They recognise that information can travel quickly through workplaces, social groups and family networks. They also centre the survivor rather than the convenience of readers. After sharing something painful, I do not owe strangers follow-up interviews, explanations or reassurance that I am now healed.
Ways I protect myself while writing
A difficult subject still needs practical care. My own working boundaries when writing about sexual assault are simple but non-negotiable. They keep the account honest without requiring me to abandon myself in its creation.
- I choose the timing, and I give myself permission to stop before every sitting or after publication.
- I leave out identifying details about locations, routines or people who could identify me to others.
- I focus on the impact and aftermath rather than adding physical details for shock or titillation.
- I ask a trusted person to check the language for accuracy without demanding that I prove the event happened.
- I make sure support is available before publishing, especially when the subject has triggered fear, panic or dissociation.
These practices do not make writing risk-free. They help me keep control over the experience as much as the published words allow. A piece can remain important even when I decide not to edit it again, answer a comment or continue telling the story.
What I want the reader to remember
Writing does not give me control over everyone who reads my work, but it gives me a voice that I did not possess at the time of the assault. It also keeps the wider issue visible: people should not be able to abuse power without consequence simply because survivors lack the language, support or safety to tell the truth.
I no longer describe survival as a performance of usefulness. In another essay, I explain why I stopped treating trauma as a commodity. My experience does not become more valuable because strangers learn from it, and it does not become less valuable because I choose what not to share.
The memory I want readers to carry is simple: I am more than the worst thing done to me, and I am allowed to speak about it on my own terms. The discomfort may visit the page, but it does not get the final word.
